2:48am
by glossier
Summary: He finds the devil in a bar wearing six inch heels and dark lipstick. — Josh/Maya/Lucas


**2:48 a.m.  
**He finds the devil in a bar wearing six inch heels and dark lipstick.

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You don't really notice her until you hear it: that laugh.

The one that's settled into the confines of an organ that's been incapable of feeling for all the years you've toyed and danced your way through drinks and one-night-stands with those sorority girls in the come-fuck-me mini skirts and the blue eyeshadow. It's a laugh you've subconsciously buried away, hidden somewhere you can't seem to place—in your marrow, or the streams of your blood. But your heart, for sure. The wretched thing; the bringer of pain and ecstasy and everything in between.

She'd know a lot about it.

You watch her laugh, basking in the familiar sweetness. It's something you haven't heard in years. She flirts away with the too-old bartender, (she had always liked her men older, didn't she?—with those daddy issues and that condescending demeanor making her seem much older than she really is) twirling a strand of blonde and batting away her eyelashes. You know those tricks a little too well from distant memories.

You down your rum and get another round. You have nowhere to go, anyways. The bartender slips her his number with a wink, and there goes her laugh again—all pretty and coy and very, very Hart.

She fiddles with the straw of her cocktail, swishing the vibrantly coloured liquid and you watch her. (and you're completely oblivious to how absurdly creepy you're being because you're a bit shocked, a tad amused, and just a little captivated) You kind of want her to turn, to flicker her eyes up to yours so you could see that little vixen smirk and watch as she hops off the barstool in cavalier elegance to make her way over to you like you're her first priority. You never admit it, but you'd be lying if you claimed you didn't like the attention way back when. You'd also being lying if you claimed that it suddenly became hard to gulp when you meet those blue irises.

She might have grown up; surely _looks_ like it. Sharper face, stronger jaw, still the same magnetizing eyes. She reacts differently than expected, throwing a lock of her hair behind an exposed shoulder and turning away to engage in conversation with some passerby—_after_ that infamous smile, of course. She wants you to be the first one to make the move, to the turn the tables, take the wheel. She's testing you, you're aware, and this game goes on. She side-eyes you, and you throw her a smile, sometimes a nod of the head or a raise of the brow. This goes on until she only has a quarter of her drink left and you suck it up and approach her. She's clearly not one for losing.

You take a seat to her left, and that tangy, addictive voice makes you feel things you shouldn't. You blame the alcohol.

"Well, look who we have here," Maya smiles. Her lips are coloured wine. You make sure your eyes don't linger on them for too long—you can't give her the satisfaction.

Actually, maybe. Just for a second.

(her lips are nice.

always have been)

"How are you?" You ask with your boyish charm—something that might have had her at her knees in your younger years. "Would never expect to see you here, especially at this hour."

Outskirts of New York didn't really seem like her thing. You would have never pegged her to drink cocktails by herself at two a.m., either.

"I'm the same, really," the Hart sips.

"Still gorgeous," you say. It's a statement. That's all. A fact, you could argue, if you really wanted to.

Her eyes flare, but her cheeks don't burn.

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.

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You fuck her with the lights on because she's eager and you're you.

She had initiated it. And there's something wrong, you know it. But she wants you, she whispers harshly between her teeth before she uses them to bite your lip. She wants you she wants you she wants you. But she doesn't, and you know it. And you let her undo your belt and you let her wrestle your tongue and you let her do what she pleases.

And when she screams Lucas's name during her climax, you let her fall into your chest, feeling the way her body falls and rises. You tangle your fingers in her hair and you don't say a word. You don't feel betrayal, or anything of the sort because in a way, you'd both been using each other.

You don't know when she starts crying, but you run fingers up and down her spine until she falls asleep.

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Riley and Lucas are getting married, you hear, two days later.

(two days _late_—)

You're in the wedding, of course. You're the bride's uncle, for Christ's sake.

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You don't know what went on between them. It's not your business.

Even when she calls you up at eleven p.m. for a pair of lips and a drink or two, you don't ask. It's really not your concern.

But you fuck her good and you fuck her fast, the way she likes it. You help her forget the pain, the loneliness, even if only for a little while.

You've got a weakness for her, you really do. You will never admit it, though.

(_that_ will fuck you up, big time)

.

.

The both of you keep it a secret.

It's an unspoken understanding because really—you're fucking the bride's (your _niece_'s) maid of honor (_best friend_). It had been a bad idea from the start, but you'd been broken and she'd been desperate and bad things always felt _everything_ but bad.

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Maya's quite the actor, you observe, when she makes her speech at the rehearsal wedding. She plays the part, _is_ the part. She'd do everything, anything, for Riley's happiness, even if it requires breaking her own heart. You watch her congratulate the pair with a winning smile, being sure to never meet the Friar's gaze as she raises her glass of champagne. You don't miss it: his look. It's something of sacrifice, of hurt, maybe longing, you think. Regardless, the two don't say a word to each other. You could wonder why, but you already know.

When Lucas stands up, the handsome lad he is, to say a toast to his beloved fiancé, you watch her disappear in the midst of the crowd. Everyone's eyes are on the brunette's, though, so no one notices.

(but you)

You don't follow her, though.

(because that's what secret lovers would do or what a boy with feelings for a heartbroken girl would do or what a man would do for the the woman he's been rendezvous-ing with and that is _much_ too obvious)

During the part where the couple dances, taking the floor, the spotlight, the attention, she slips into the seat beside yours. She has another glass of the sparkling drink held between manicured fingers. She doesn't say a word as her eyes are glazed on her best friends, gliding away on the dance floor.

"They're beautiful," she finally admits.

"So are you," you say, because sometimes she forgets and all you want to do is remind her.

She doesn't spare you the glance, allowing the couple's reflection to dance along the blue of her orbs, "It's not about me."

.

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She doesn't scream his name the night after the wedding.

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In the aftermath of it all, she sits in your flannel and makes art on your bed. She had gotten paint on your sheets, but you don't say anything.

"I know you wanna ask me about it," she murmurs, continuing to flick her brush along the canvas resting crookedly on a towel.

"I do," you reply.

She purses her lips and brushes a wavy strand that had fallen from her bun behind an ear. "Shoot."

"How long have you loved him for?"

And it's in the way that she hesitates, lost in that fragile, delicate state of mind, when you know that it's been a much longer time than expected.

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You know it's the last time when you wake up and she's gone.

Maya had _never_ left first in the mornings, (not with you, _never_ with you) especially since she had learned that you're not one to leave the bed cold.

You had fallen asleep together, though. _This_, you remember; along with the shadows casting along her sleeping face, her light breaths warm against the neck she had sunk her teeth in. In a bittersweet sarcastic thought, you assume it's better than biting into false hope. You remember the feel of her body against yours—how fitting it had all been. It's nothing, though.

You rest your head along the wall behind your bed and think of the way her nails had scratched love into your skin.

And you sigh.

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_fin_.

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**_a/n:** whether or not josh fell for her is up to your interpretation


End file.
